Film critic James Sanford relates experience with testicular cancer in new book 'The Sum of My Parts'

I was supposed to be writing a fun book about celebrity interviews and movie trivia. Somehow, I wound up with a book about cancer called “The Sum of My Parts.”

Even stranger: People keep telling me they laughed out loud while reading it. I take that as a compliment although there was a time not very long ago when I couldn’t see anything remotely humorous about my situation.

That’s why I originally wanted to do a memoir about what it’s like to be an entertainment reporter: the things you see and hear, the behind-the-scenes stories you don’t put in print, the adventures you can have while trying to get a story.

And that was exactly what I was working on earlier this year. Everything was going extremely smoothly — until I hit that “stop” sign in the middle of Memory Lane. I couldn’t avoid it or go around it: If I was going to tell my life story, I would have to write about the cancer experience, much as I would have preferred not to.

Shortly before my 39th birthday, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer, a disease that usually strikes men in their teens and 20s. I was so far outside the traditional age group for the disease that some people didn’t believe I could possibly have it. But I knew that was the case practically every moment of every day for three mystifying, sometimes miserable months.

At the time, I was an arts reporter and critic at The Kalamazoo Gazette. I also coordinated our weekly entertainment magazine. I had been at The Gazette for four years by that time, and I had never taken a sick day.

I was too busy to be sick. Or so I thought.

James Sanford

I knew something was wrong when I awakened on Easter morning in 2002 and felt that weird heaviness for the first time. Even so, I kept trying to convince myself that this was nothing out of the ordinary. It might be a hernia. Maybe an allergic reaction.

It wasn’t until two months later that I realized I had to do something immediately. I had gone to Chicago for the two-day press junket for “Road to Perdition,” and it should have been a blast. Tom Hanks and Paul Newman were there (and so was a then-semi-obscure British actor named Daniel Craig), and there were fancy luncheons to attend and cocktail parties that provided great networking opportunities.

But instead of enjoying Chicago, I was spending most of my time in my room, eating leftover deep-dish pizza and feeling lousy and wondering if what I had was going to kill me.

Are you laughing yet? I definitely was not. Around the time I got the diagnosis, I remember seeing a testicular cancer forum on the Internet that had a special section devoted to “Humor.” The heading said something like “believe it or not, there is a lighter side to this.” I remember being disgusted; nine years later, I must admit some of the experiences I went through were so bizarre and unexpected that all I could do was see the peculiar comedy in them.

When I had to inform the people around me about my situation, some of the questions I got — many of them from people who should know better — were priceless. I know the friend who blurted out “Are you going to have a colostomy bag?” did not mean to offend, but when you say the words “colostomy bag” in the kind of tone you might use to say “ptomaine poisoning,” let’s just say the subtext is not too “sub” at that point. (No, I did not have a colostomy bag, by the way.)

Snappy response

Then there was the acquaintance who asked, in the voice of a kindly kindergarten teacher, “Are you ever going to be able to go to the bathroom again?” How badly I wanted to answer, “No, those days are over. But now I can move to an apartment without a bathroom, and those are so much cheaper!” (Yes, I have gone to the bathroom a few times in the past nine years.)

The all-time best response came after I carefully and thoroughly explained to a friend on the phone what was going on and how it would be treated. There was a brief silence and a sigh on the other end. “Now,” this so-called adult began, cautiously. “Are you sure you’re not going to die?”

“What?” I asked.

“This is a lot for me to handle,” my friend huffed. “I’m going through a lot right now, and I just don’t think I can handle this.”

Sadly, technology has not yet brought us to the point where we can slap some sense into someone via cellphone. Hurry up, science.

Admittedly, I did not find any of this side-splittingly hilarious at the time. But before long, when I looked back on how ignorant/insensitive/obnoxious some people had been, all I could do was chuckle. I knew none of them meant to sound the way they did; faced with an unexpected shock, they had reacted without taking the time to think through their responses. I’m sure I’ve been guilty of the same foolishness, that in trying to express concern and sympathy I only succeeded in saying something utterly inane.

Ninety percent of the friends, family and co-workers I talked to were wonderful and said precisely what I needed to hear and gave me their support and best wishes. I remember how secure and optimistic they made me feel, and I will always be grateful for that.

But I am just as indebted to the clods who barked, “So, is this some kind of sexually transmitted disease?” (It definitely is not.) These well-meaning but graceless souls made the impossible happen: They managed to show me that the website was right — there was a lighter side to all of this, if only I was willing to look for it.

In the book, I write: “Several people had told me things like ‘your courage and strength are an inspiration to me,’ which was quite nice to hear, but an honor that was completely undeserved on my part. I had a tumor that was almost certainly cancerous, and I had a choice: I could have surgery to remove it, or I could let it continue to grow and permit the cancer to spread to my lungs, brain, liver, bones or wherever. The decision was not difficult, and it definitely did not require much in the way of bravery. It was a simple matter of self-preservation.”

No courage needed

Finding the “courage” to face the disease came fairly easily. Being able to put it all in perspective took much longer and was far more complicated. Writing it down was equally tough. I doubt I would have gotten anywhere with the book if I hadn’t recently read Rosanne Cash’s “Composed,” Wade Rouse’s “It’s All Relative” and Frank Bruni’s “Born Round,” three excellent memoirs that each addressed troubling material in compelling ways; they gave me confidence to put my own struggles into words.

We like to believe that long periods of time can cushion unpleasant memories and make them easier to examine. Although that was true of certain incidents, there were others that still were exceedingly painful to face.

Yet there were just as many hours when I found myself remembering funny moments, like having to wrap a parka around my waist in August to keep the seat belt from pressing down on the staples along my thigh, or the absurdity of being charged $40 for “recovery room incidentals” that turned out to be nothing more than a single vanilla wafer and a Dixie cup full of Sprite.

For years, I insisted no one would want to hear about what I went through, much less pay for the privilege. Testicular cancer is not something most people want to even think about, much less discuss. I know I had never talked about it until the time came when I couldn’t not talk about it.

I didn’t think the book would be published; when it was, I never imagined it would sell. Now, thousands of readers from around the world have made me eat my words — and, for once in my life, I am thrilled to lose an argument.

Many of the comments I have received have been astonishing. I think my favorite came from a man who sent me a one-word review through Facebook: “Life-changing,” he wrote. (I wish I could recall anyone ever using that term to describe one of my movie reviews.)

“The Sum of My Parts” is available as a Kindle Singles title through Amazon.com. If you do not have a Kindle reader, you can download a Kindle application for your computer or phone on the book’s Amazon page.